An Attempt
by chicadoodle
Summary: Harry has been living with Dumbledore, the summer after his fifth year, and has been indulging in muggle drugs to force away the image of Voldemorts torture sessions. being rewritten!
1. Chapter 1: Caught!

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, groaned softly under his breath, rolling over in his bed until he was on his back.

Sweat covered his face, sliding in a slick trail down to his neck and soaking the top of the worn, oversized shirt he was wearing as his nightclothes.

Slowly lifting himself into a sitting poisition, Harry rubbed the back of his neck in irritation, attempting to work out the kinks that had formed there durring the night. Glancing idly at the old clock that stood on a stand beside his bed, Harry sighed yet again, letting his shoulders droop as he realised that he had been awakened yet again at the early hour of 4AM.

Slowly shoving himself up and out of the bed, Harry slowly padded across the bare wooden floor, opening his bedroom door as quietly as possible and glancing down the corridor to make sure that none of the other residents of the house were awake and moving about. It wouldn't do to be caught awake at this time of night, after all.

As he neared the bathroom door, Harry idly wondered what Ron and Hermione would have to say about this particular turn of events. True, he wasn't living with the Dursley's anymore, which was a definite improvement. However, he WAS currenly living in the Dumbledore household, closeted off from any and all interaction with the outside world. Even Professor Dumbledore rarely spoke to him. Although, the man had been extremely busy lately, comming and going at all hours of the night ...

Harry slowly creaked the bathroom door open, making sure to lock it securely before continuing over to the pristine white sink. It was always the same, after he'd had a dream of one of Voldermort's various torture sessions. The man had learned by now not to reveal any important information durring the nightime hours, lest Harry overhear it and reveal it to the Headmaster. He saved those hours for his "fun", for little torture sessions with Muggles and Squibs, for rape and pillage and plunder, for gruesome acts of atrocity. He saved those times for turning Harry's sleeping hours into an unparalelled hell.

And because of this, Harry had turned to the one thing that could help himd eal with it. Dumbledore was gone so much,

that when he was at home (as rare as that was), he was either sleeping, questioingg the house elves on what Harry had been up to, or pouring over papers and plans. So it never occured to him to go into the bathroom near Harry's rooms.

After all, why would it? It was just a bathroom, after all, and Dumbledore had his own bathroom closer to his rooms.

Reaching forward with steady hands, Harry opened the bottom drawer of the cupboard udnerneath the sink, hands groping around slightly in the dark until he came across what he was looking for -- a needle. Sighing in relief, Harry pulled out the needle, smiling slightly. It was already filled with what he had sometime thought of as "happy medicine" -- he always made sure that it was there, ready and waiting for him when he needed a release after a particularly brutal vision. If Dunbledore knew that he was taking this -- this illegal drug that could very well kill him in a heartbeat if he took too much of it, or continued to take it for too long a period of time, Harry knew that he'd been a whole boat-load of trouble.

However, he just couldn't seem to care. He was their perfect golden boy in every other aspect,and sometimes it just got so damn annoying. It wasn't that he was acting, or playing in the way that he interacted with everybody else. But they expected him to have no faults, and always act in this perfect manner. Of course, it was pefectly acceptable if anybody else made mistakes, or spoke in a bad manner, broke rules, or even went against the wishes of the headmaster. But him? Any and all slytherin qualities that he might have posessed he was forced to keep out the eye of the public -- or even the private eye of his friends and adopted family. Why? Because he was the world's beacon of hope. He was what they looked to for conformation that the world was good, and that truth and light would always prevail. Therefore, he could not be gloomy, he could not be sad, he could not have times when he though that the Dark Lord might actually win. Because if people saw that he though that at times, then they would believe that there truly was no hope. And that just couldn't be tolerated, now could it?

Smiling ruefully at the thought, Harry slowly brought the needle to his arm, and was just aabout to press it into the soft flesh there when he suddenly found his hand free of any object, and a lard hand grabbing him by the arm and roughly hauling him to his feet. Gasping in alarm, Harry found himself staring directly into the eyes of Hadmaster Dumbledore.

"You know, Harry ... I was almost hoping that one of the house-elves had stashed this here. Atleast then I could have simply given them quite a bit of extra work, or possibly even sold them. Why are you taking this,

Harry?"

Harry blinked in surprise at the older man. Why ...? Dumbledore didn't sound angry at all, just a little ... sad. Almost like he had dealt with this before.

Albus Dumbledore was not a happy little man, not by any measure of the words. When Harry had proved uncooperative the night before, he'd sent the boy back to bed, with a house elf standing guard, to ensure that the boy didn't move a muscle out of that bed. He wasn't going anywhere.

But aside from that, he really wasn't sure what to do. And while he had dealt with troubled young men before, this was highly different. Then, it had been students that he knew next to nothing about, students that he could remain objective with. They had held no special place in his heart ... unlike Harry.

He should have been watching the boy more closely, should have been monitoring not only his daily routines, but his expenses, as well. With the death of his godfather, Harry had drawn in on himself, rarely talking to anybody. Oh, he was cooperative enough when it came right down to it, but it always seemed as if he was ... holding something back.

So he'd made sure that the house elves were monitoring the boy every hour of the day, and making routine checks on hism durring the night. But he'd never stopped to consider just what Harry was buying with his money, especially since most of it seemed to be from Muggle London.

Looking back on it now, he could see that for the mistake that it was. And the result of this, was that Harry seemed to have ... taken a liking to certain muggle drugs. And not just the one that he'd caught the boy using.

He'd immediately searched through Harry's personal belongings, while Harry stood by, leaning against the wall of his room. He'd barely spoken at all, seeming to know that now was not the time t be comming up with excuses of alibii's.

Besides, what could he say, really? What could he say to the alcohol that had been uncovered from his backpack, or the marijuana from his trunk? This was, apparently, how Harry dealt with grief. By burying it away, forcing it out of the public eye, and trying with all his might to ingore it himself. Did he ever allow himself to feel the pain, really?

Sighing softly, Albus lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeesing his eyes shut. He really needed a vacation.

Harry sighed softly, leaning back against the headboard of his bed, eyes trained on the book resting on his lap. However, the words were all a blur, as he was unable on focus on pretty much anything aside from his current dilemma.

The Headmaster had ransacked his room late last night, before setting up a house-elf on either side of his door. 24-hour surveillance of the worst kind.

Didn't those damn creatures ever sleep?! Apparently not, since the same house elf had been staring at him in that uncanny way since midnight ... and it was now nearly noon of the next day.

He'd gotten to the point where he could ignore those beady little eyes, always watching carefully his every movement. They were always there, though, in the back of his mind. He couldn't completely ignore them, knowing that every action he made would be instantly and promptly reported to the headmaster. Therefore, he'd opted for no action at all. Right now, the safest thing to do, for him, was nothing at all.

Harry blinked in surprise as the door to his rooms suddenly bnaged open, to reveal an extremely irate Ron ald Weasley.

Oh. Shit.

Ron was mad. No, he was beyond made. He was damn well bloody FUMING. That much Harry could tell at first sight. Red hair in a dissarray as if he had run all the way here from another point far on the other side of the house, he stood there for a moment, trying to catch his breath.

However, the silence that previaled durring that too-short a period of time was soon shattered.

"What the HELL did you think you were doing, mate?" Ron yelled, hands balled into tight fists at his side, a sign of just how mad he was. Well, that and the way that his face matched his hair, at the moment.

Ron had been yelling for atleast five minutes now, without pause. How he still head breath with which to speak, Harry wasn't quite sure. But he did. Oh, he most definately did.

If he was honest with himself, he knew that Ron was only acting this way because he was worried. Worried about just what the side effects or consequences could be of taking illegal, muggle drugs. He didn't know what might happen to his friend, and that was scaring him. Harry could understand that.

Well, he could under normal curcumstances. For once, he didn't want to be the understanding best friend, the guy who always did exactly what he was expected to do. He knew what the world expected of him -- he was the Boy-Who-Lived. Always brave, just, and true. He always did what he was supposed to, even if he was a little reckless when it came to those he loved. But that, too, was something that people expected of him -- that he do whatever it took to beat the Dark Lord. That he take those chances, that he stand up and fight when other woldn't. Or couldn't.

And for once, he'd done something for himself. He hadn't thought about how it would effect anybody else -- his friends, his mentor, his teachers, the whole fucking world. He done something completely and utterly for himself. And this was how people reacted. Like ... like he wasn't allowed to be himself. Like he couldn't show his Slytherin colors for once in his life.

Hey, the sorting hat had wanted to put into Slytherin for a reason, right?

Harry knew that he was being irrational. He knew it, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Ron was still there, yelling something about responsibility, and those he loved being so worried about him. He'd mentioned Sirius a couple of times now -- that was when Harry had first started tuning him out. He couldn't think of the older man, without feeling his entire mind going numb, blocking out the pain that he knew would come ripping through his system at the sound of that name. A name that Harry had come to think of as the embodiement of love.

So he simply shut out the sound of his best friend's yelling, idly noting that Dumbledore had come into the room and was attempting to calm the red-head down. Harry felt a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but quickly forced it away, wiping his face of all emotion. It wouldn't do to set the boy's tempter flailng off again, now would it?

Albus watched Harry out of the corner of his eye, noting the bored look on the young man's face. However, his eyes told amuch different story. Shuttered of as they were, a small amount of his pain still managed to leek out -- no matter how much he tried to hide away his feelings ... they didn't call the eyes to window to the soul for nothing, now did they?

Harry was hurting, even if he refused to admit it to the outside world, or even to himself. Perhaps it was Ron's choice of words, perhaps it was the death of his godfather -- truly the only family he had left in the world. Or perhaps it was someting else, something he hadn't aken into account. Until Harry opened up to him, he could only guess.

Sighing softly, Albus brought a hand down on the youngest Weasley boy's arm, steering him carefully out of the room, noticing for the first time tat a group had gathered at the end of the hallway, listening in rapt attention to the accussations Ron had been flinging so heatedly at his best friend.

Well, that one way to let Remus and Hermione know what was happening, why they had been called so urgently to come and gather here, and his little-used summer home.

Harry sighed softly, watching as the Headmaster steered Ron out of the room. He'd noticed the look that had crossed over the old man's face -- it had almost looked as if he was reading his mind, picking it apart and sifting through all of the hurt, all of the pain. All of the guilt.

Sirius' death was his fault. There was no disputing that fact, in his mind. Perhaps other people saw it differently, but Harry knew. If he hadnever been so damned ... so damned GRYFFINDOR, Sirius would still be alive. Perhaps his life wouldn't have been so filled with love as it had been, but atleast so many people would still be alive. Cedric. Sirius. And perhaps more.

Harry sighed loudly, glancing up towards the door to make sure that nobody was watching him. It wouldn't do for them to see the guilt, would it? It wouldn't do for them to see anything except the perfect Golden Boy.

Although ... they already had, hadn't they? They'd already seen so much that he didn't want them to. And all because he'd been stupid, and taken the stuff while Dumbledore was still in the house. He really had to work on making SMART decisions. Like saving the "special medicine" for more appropriate times.

Severus Snape squeezed his eyes shut, running a hand over his eyes as he tried in vain to block out the sound of the collected talking of the entire Weasley Clan. Or, well, more like shouting. When the all got together, the racket was nearly unbearable.

"Severus, I'd like you to talk to him." All noise in the room suddenly ceased at the Headmaster's words, and Severus could swear that the man had said it just to get their attention. But no ... the look in the old headmaster's eyes was far too serious for that. Gone was the twinkle that spoke of his strange sense of humor, of the wisdom that he had collected over the years. In it's place was ... age.

Finally finding his voice, Severus sent one of his best glares at the older man, a glare that had sent many a first year crying from his potions class room. However, it seemed to have no effect on the older man. It never did, come to think of it. "Albus, I highly doubt that I am the best candidate to talk to Mr. Potter. Why not the werewolf?" Severus sent one of his best sneers in the man's direction, slightly disappointed when it didn't get the rise out of the man he had been expecting.

"Exactly. They are close -- not nearly as close as Harry and his godfather were, but very close, nonetheless. And therein lies the problem. Harry has something to prove to him, has something to hide from him. He would never want Remus, or any of the Weasleys, for that matter, to see him grieve. He would never want them to see him angry, or sad, or any of the emotions that we humans are so fond of displaying. He need somebody that he doesn't love, Severus." All of this was said close to Severus' ear, away from the din of the Weasley's cry of outrage at such a proposal. Even Hermione had joined in, yelling as loudly as she could, so as to be heard over the collective Weasley uproar. Therefore, none of them heard the headmaster's soft spoken voice.

Severus stared at the headmaster for a moment longer, his glare now gone. In it's place was a thoughtful, speculative look that he rarely wore when dealing with students outside of his own House. Nodding sharply after a few seconds of thoughtful silence, Severus turned and walked towards the door that would lead him to young Potter's chambers, as the Heasmaster attempted to calm the remaining guests.

As he walked slowly down the corridor, Severus couldn't help but feel a little apprehensive. Yes, he'd spoken with students about these sort of things before ... but it had always been his Slytherins, who knew instinctively that they could trust him. They were cunning, yes. And quick to distrust. And therefore, it was usually those of Potter's age group that he tended to have these conversations with. Not generally a problem, for those in his own House.

But this was Potter. Potter! The embodiment of courage and right in the universe, and ... well, Gryffindor. He was a bloody Gryffindor!

But Albus was right -- as usual. Potter needed to talk to somebody that he didn't feel the need to close himself off against. Somebody that he didn't love, and thus didn't feel the need to protect.

Harry glanced up from the book on his lap, watching as Professor Snape entered gracefully into his rooms, closing the door behind him.

That was odd. Not only that it was Professor Snape, but that he had closed the door behind him. All of the other times that Professor Dumbledore had come in to talk to him, and the time when Ron had stormed in to yell at him, they had always left the door wide open, as if they wanted the entire world to hear everything that they had to say. Or was it that they thought it would make him feel somehow safer? Either way, the door had always stayed open. Until now.

Setting the book aside apprehensively, Harry watched as Snape stalked toward him, settling himself into a chair beside his bed. He looked somehow ... off balance with his surroundings, as if he some how didn't belong. He never took his eyes off of the dark haired youth before him, and Harry could feel himself already starting to grow uncomfortable under that heavy gaze.

"Something I can help you with, Professor?" Harry asked uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his chest and staring defiantly back at the older man.


	2. Chapter 2: Information Gained

Severus Snape was presented with a quandry.

On one hand, it amused him, in a childish sort of way, to see the son of James Potter faring none better than his own Slytherins. It was childish, he knew, and petty. But he had never been one to ignore his own emotions – or those of others. Both were equally useful, and equally dangerous when left to run amok.

But another part of him, a part he generally stowed away with useless translations and aspirations to learn how to speak Parseltongue – another part of him actually wanted to _help_ the brat. Not a foreign concept, considering the students who invariably found their way in to Slytherin House and, eventually, to his door.

So, to help the boy. He had been charged with the task, and it was not a particularly revolting task, all things considered. The boy had remained surprisingly quiet, guarded even. A good quality, though not one he had expected to find in a Gryffindor – and a Potter, as well.

But there it was. And here he was, saving the boy's life. Again.

Leaning forward in his chair, Severus regarded the teenager before him for a moment, drawing out the silence and watching the younger man squirm. So perhaps – _perhaps_ – he was enjoying this. Enjoying this utter fall from grace. And perhaps he didn't want to help right away.

But now was not the time to indulge. The Headmaster would begin to question, the longer he remained with the boy. The longer the door remained closed.

"You ... are a quandry, Mr. Potter. Gryffindor, indeed. Tell me, what did you promise the Sorting Hat, that it placed you in the entirely wrong House?" Severus smirked, quite prepared for the outburst he was sure was about to come his way.

He was sorely disappointed by the raised eyebrow he received instead – a pale imitation of his own facial expression. "I asked it for Gryffindor, and it let me." Harry shrugged, shifting in to a more comfortable position on the bed and setting his book to the side, uncaring as it slid closed. He hadn't really been reading it, anyway.

Severus stared at his professor for a moment, before letting out a sharp bark of laughter. The sound surprised his student, causing Harry to jump slightly as he stared at the older man with wide eyes. Shaking his head, Severus gave a tight-lipped smile as he watched the boy. "You _asked_. Lovely. I'll be having a word with Albus about that one." Continuing to shake his head, Severus glanced away from his student to take stock of the room around him.

It was surprisingly bare, for all that the boy had been living here for the majority of the summer. Nobody had gotten the specifics on that one, only that Harry was now living at the Dumbledore summer home; and mostly by himself. Severus had been certain that would only lead to trouble, although he had expected that trouble to come in the form of Death Eaters, or foolish excursions into London.

Actually, the second guess hadn't be too far off the mark, apparently – the boy had to get the drugs from _somewhere_, and he highly doubted the House Elves had willingly supplied him with such dangerous materials.

"I didn't do anything _wrong_." Harry was quick to defend himself, a scowl transforming his face; and that transformation wiped the mirth cleanly off Severus' own face.

Amazing, what a simple change in expression could do. The boy no longer looked anything akin to his more father, and Severus was left to wonder how he had not seen it before – the resemblance to another man. A man he had seen angered enough times, both in years past, and more recently.

Lord Voldemort had undergone a transformation of his own recently, one which Severus had yet to let the Order know about. It had not seemed that important, that Voldemort seemed to have gained some vanity about his person; that he seemed to care how he looked. It certainly wasn't for women, and Severus had been hard pressed to find any ulterior motive behind the action; his followers still trembled in his presense, and even he wore a mask now, different from their own but just as frightening in the dark of night.

But now, watching the face of young Potter twist to so closely resemble that of his enemy, Severus couldn't help but second guess that assumption. _Was_ there a more sinister purpose behind it? Had he been baiting his own followers, his enemies, to consider a rather unnerving truth?

The idea of Voldemort procreating was disturbing enough, and with a _muggleborn_ --! But no, it had to be just a coincidence; a rather shocking, disturbing coincidence, but one nonetheless. For there was no way--

"Professor?" The scowl had faded from Harry's face by now, replaced by a frown and raised eyebrow. Severus scowled at the boy, more annoyed with his own inattentiveness than any action the teenager had taken.

Harry, of course, had no way of knowing that, and settled back against the bed with a sigh, quite certain he had, once again, botched things up with the older man. Not that it was any surprise; everything was falling apart lately – why should his relationship with his potions professor _improve_ any?

Severus settled himself back against his chair, watching the Gryffindor with a puzzled frown. Far less expressionless than he usually acted around the boy, he knew; far more animated than any but his Slytherins, and on the rare occasion the rest of the teaching staff, saw him. But there was one nagging question that just would not leave him be.

"Where did the Sorting Hat want you, then?" Harry glanced up sharply at the question, eyes narrowed as he watched the other man. In the next instant, however, a smile transformed his face and he was once again the Gryffindor golden boy Severus was so accustomed to seeing him as.

"Slytherin."

It took Severus a moment to process that, but when he did, the rational part of his brain instantly recognized the truth of it. The way Potter was acting tonight; it was reminiscent of some first-year Slytherin students – defensive, angry, nearly out of control.

But Potter had had a lot more time, and many more resources, to work on that anger than any of those first years generally had. More money, with which to build a dependency of some rather ... elicit muggle drugs.

Were they all muggle, though? That was the question. Albus had found nothing to warrant such a question, but then again, if Potter was smart he would not have kept everything out in the open. That was a rather large _if_, however.

Ah, the old prejudices, coming back to haunt him. If the boy had truly been meant for Slytherin ...

It couldn't have all been an act, but neither could he be so utterly Gryffindor without some sort of a front. Some of it had to be an act, a show for the rest of the world. But how much?

Severus leaned forward, hands pressed flat together and held up so that his thumbs were just below his chin, the tips of his index fingers pressing against his nose.

A couple of minutes passed in such a silence, Severus appearing to ignore the boy and Harry fidgeting under the uncomfortably silence. In reality, Severus was acutely aware of every movement the teenager made, every noise and annoyed sigh, every sideway glance sent his way. It amused him, in some part of his brain. But another, larger part was calculating, wondering. Ruse, or reality? Gryffindor from long association, or Slytherin underneath a mask?

Finally straightening, Severus stood to his feet and made his way out of the room without another word, allowing the door to swing partially closed as he left. Not entirely, no. Albus would have a temper tantrum at the thought of Potter doing anything without his consent, now.

And they thought _Severus_ was obsessed.


End file.
